


Personal Effects

by followingyourbliss



Category: Agent Carter (Marvel Short Film), Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Steggy, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Mild Angst, Steggy - Freeform, Steggy Week 2020, Steggy Week Day 6: Headcanons, steggy babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25491916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followingyourbliss/pseuds/followingyourbliss
Summary: An imagined behind the scenes of Peggy Carter’s 1953 interview shown in the Smithsonian exhibit in Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Written for Steggy Positivity Week 2020: Day 6: Headcanons.The full version of the interview is found here: https://youtu.be/2iCQKvTNO64
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 13
Kudos: 85





	Personal Effects

  
Friday, October 16th, 1953 – Manhattan

———

The moment Steve spotted Peggy coming out of the Edison Hotel that afternoon, he knew something was wrong.

She quickly plastered on a tight smile when their eyes met, and gave him a perfunctory kiss at the corner of his mouth as she sunk into the passenger seat. 

“Everything alright?” he ventured.

“Yes, fine,” she replied. The wobble of her chin as she said it somewhat undermined this assertion.

Steve just raised his eyebrows and waited. She met his gaze briefly, but instead of explaining, chose to scrub away the lipstick mark she’d left and then check on the sleeping child in the backseat.

Steve got the message and started the car.

“Where to? Mikey’s got another half hour probably. We can grab a burger, or find a deli…?”

She shook her head. “I’m not really that hungry if it’s all the same to you.”

Steve nodded. “Sure. Home then?”

Home, for the purposes of the evening, was a charming bed and breakfast they had been recommended down in Brooklyn. They’d been in town three nights, for a SHIELD conference Peggy had described only in the vaguest details. Steve didn’t press; he knew from the way she spoke that she wouldn’t enjoy having to relive it in the telling.

Besides, he’d had his own plans. Visiting the stomping grounds of his childhood was top of the list - he hadn’t been back since the war. Well, not his Brooklyn, anyway. And then, because the forecast had called for rain, the MoMA. They’d had two special exhibitions he wanted to check out, a Jacques Villon retrospective, and a children’s toy installation that he figured Michael might get a kick out of. The latter was kind of a bust, because none of the displays were interactive - who makes a toy exhibit that kids can’t play with? - but a dozen rides on a carousel in Prospect Park when the weather cleared had made up for it.

Steve had been so focused on keeping their rambunctious toddler entertained, and planning weekend excursions Peggy could join them on when work finally permitted, that he’d almost overlooked something staring him right in the face.

It was only when she mentioned an interview on the second day, that he suddenly had realized the significance.

“What kind of interview?”

“Oh, you know. The kind where we talked about the war, and the agency, and I pretended to answer whilst saying as little as possible.”

He had looked at her sideways for a long while, taking in the familiar style of her hair, the shade of her lipstick. She’d rounded on him with a smile.

“What? You know something.”

“Maybe. You have another one tomorrow?”

“Yes. How do you know that? Was it on that…Me tube thing?”

He’d rolled his eyes affectionately, and tugged on her hips with his broad hands.

“No. There was a clip playing at the Museum of American History.”

“How tedious. Can’t imagine any twenty-first century schoolchildren would be glad to sit through it, if it’s anything like the one I just had.”

Steve couldn’t remember if he had specifically told her about the Captain America exhibit. It all burred together at this point. Embarrassed, he shrugged his shoulders.

“They—they’re gonna ask about me.”

“Ah,” she said, sensing his unease, and teasing him unrepentantly. “It all makes sense now! I bet you liked hearing me talk about you.”

“So you better have your story straight, Carter,” he said, closing what little distance remained between them. “We were just comrades, right?”

“Mmm,” she’d smiled, his mouth centimeters from hers. “Is _that_ what they’re calling it in the future?”

———

The next morning Peggy had donned a dark blue skirt suit, and Steve had sat on the floor, playing with Michael, watching her put on all the finishing touches. He was sure the grin on his face made him look like a dope, but he couldn’t help it. Even though their son had woken them up before six and upended an entire bowl of oatmeal into his lap, even though the weather was far drearier than he’d have liked for taking a toddler sightseeing - he just felt so damn lucky.

He’d thought about watching this exact Peggy, his Peggy now, his _wife_ , in that clip, for the first time, miserably stroking his compass. How he’d tried to bury his grief beneath pride in seeing how full and accomplished her life had been. That compass was packed away somewhere in the attic back in DC now. The compass he’d fought with his younger self over. The compass he’d taken into outer space. Didn’t need it when he had the real thing. If he only knew then what he knew now...

She wordlessly brought over her wristwatch for him to fasten in place, as he’d done hundreds of times before. She could do it herself, but it was faster with two hands. This little ritual had begun when they were newlyweds, and each excuse to touch one another was charged with so much potential.

He felt like a newlywed again as he worked the thin leather strap into the clasp. Peggy raised her eyes to his slowly, picking up on the change in the atmosphere between them. Steve had skimmed his fingers along the inside of her wrist, and gently leaned over to press his lips to her forehead, breathing in the subtle new scent beneath her perfume. He needed to touch her, feel that she was real, even if it wasn’t the time to start anything more. Michael had reiterated the point by grabbing hold of both Peggy’s legs and bouncing up and down, demanding to be picked up. The spell Steve was under broke as the responsibilities of parenthood and work obliged them to focus on the day ahead.

They had seen Peggy off at the steps of the hotel that morning and everything had been fine. Better than fine. She had looked happy, and radiant, if Steve thought so himself. But somehow, just as the grey clouds in the sky had dissipated and the day turned sunny, Peggy seemed to have done the reverse.

———

They sat silently while Steve drove. This itself wasn’t unusual. Peggy sometimes lost herself in notes from daily briefing reports, her tongue flicking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. God, was that adorable. But this was different. It looked as if it was taking everything in her not to cry. He wished she would; at least then she couldn’t pretend everything was fine when clearly it wasn’t. She was pale too, though Steve suspected that was for a different reason. He hoped that wasn’t what made her upset. The thought that it might be fairly broke his heart.

The most obvious culprit was one those colleagues of hers. A gathering of division chiefs in any governmental organization was inevitably going to involve politicking. And probably devolve into a pissing contest. As the only woman in the room, and having been appointed to the enviable Washington chiefship over male agents who thought the position was their just due, Steve was sure Peggy had been subjected to even more appalling treatment than usual. Her tolerance for it was heroic, but even she must have limits.

Thankfully she had some supporters as well. She’d mentioned Colonel Phillips had made some carrying remarks about wanting to retire soon, so she ‘should damn well be ready to move’ - essentially announcing to the assembled group that she was to be his successor as Director of SHIELD.

“Oh, and he came up to me after and said, ‘Tell that husband of yours it’s his chance to live in Paramus for real,’ which I suppose was his way of saying hello.”

And there were the guys who knew her her early New York days, Jack Thompson, now head of the Miami division, and...well, Sousa.

It wasn’t his place, Steve kept reminding himself. He’d seen Daniel briefly one time before, and if there was one thing he could say about the guy, it was that he still carried a huge torch for Peg. Maybe those feelings had come to a head.

He wanted to know, but at the same time, he really didn’t want to know.

Michael woke up just as he was parking the car outside the brownstone.

“You must be starved, darling,” Peggy said, touching his arm as he moved to get the baby out of the back seat. “Why don’t you chose something for dinner? Maybe see more of your old neighborhood. I’ll get Michael settled in the room.”

“Are you sure? I could take him off your hands. Give you a break.”

“You’ve had him all day. I could stand to do at least a tiny bit of mothering.”

Steve didn’t like her implication, but knew it was pointless to argue when she was stubborn like this. He narrowed his eyes, and quirked his brow at her.

“You tryin’ to get rid of me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Peggy said, shaking her head. She finally looked him in the eyes and kissed him, her hands pulling at the back of his neck. “I’m just tired. And I need to get changed. Chief Esposito sat next to me all afternoon, and he smokes like a chimney. I don’t know what his brand is, but it was so vile I nearly had to leave to be sick during Flynn’s presentation.”

“Isn’t that just the usual effect of listening to Chief Flynn speak?” said Steve.

Finally, for the first time that afternoon, Peggy rewarded him with a genuine smile.

———

Steve found some promising street vendors without much trouble and returned loaded down with a variety of knishes, matzo crackers, and some truly decadent blintzes for dessert.

Peggy hadn’t changed her clothes.

Mike bounded off the bed at full speed yelling for dada as if his father had been absent for weeks instead of minutes. Steve dropped the bags to catch him up in a bear hug, growling appropriately.

“Hey buddy, you been good?” Then to Peggy, “Told ya he wasn’t going to let you get any rest.”

Michael had little faded pink marks along his cheeks, as if someone wearing lipstick had been nibbling at them. Steve planted a kiss of his own on the baby soft skin, petting his fine brown hair back from his forehead.

Peggy watched them with a sort of wistful, faraway expression, absently gathering up the little firefighters that had flown off the back of Michael’s Looky Fire Truck. Steve bit back a comment, and instead turned to the hot food. “C’mon, let’s dig in.”

———

Michael arched his body, his entire back and legs coming off the ground. Steve held fast to his son’s ankles, as the little boy’s weight shifted entirely to his head. As soon as he’d made this spectacular bridge, he twisted, trying to break free and get off of his back.

“Hey. Hey,” Steve said, tapping his Michael’s knees, coaxing him to lie down again. “Quit it.”

Mike, quite happy to turn this into a battle of wills, giggled at his father’s frustration.

Steve sighed. “Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious.”

Michael slammed his whole body back again, prevented from hurting himself only by Steve’s steadfast grip on his legs. Steve reached out to tickle him around the neck and shoulders, and he finally collapsed into deep belly laughs.

“Alright you goof, are you done yet?”

He was not done yet, had not yet begun to fight. But through sheer persistence, Steve managed to wrangle his son out of his old diaper and into a fresh one all the same. He ran the soiled diaper into the bathroom to soak, then scooped up Michael, who was now barreling towards a metal stand ashtray with a gleam in his eyes.

“C’mon bud,” Steve said, buttoning him up into his little jumpsuit again, and depositing him in the playpen with a set of alphabet blocks. “I’m gonna need you to play in here for a bit while your ma and I have a conversation.”

He sank down next to Peggy, who pursed her lips, but instead of protesting, pushed away a half-eaten cracker.

“I give him 10 minutes max until he breaks out of that thing,” Steve said, and nudged her gently with his shoulder. “Spill.”

She sighed.

“It’s fine.”

He shook his head. “It’s not fine, obviously.”

She looked at him a long while. Suddenly hurt flashed into her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me I was going to make such a fool of myself?”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The interview. The one you saw at the Smithsonian, where I talk about you. The one where I ended up a blubbering mess!”

Steve stared, his mouth falling open.

“I never saw that.”

She shot him a skeptical look and he continued, “Hon, I swear, I had no idea. They only showed a montage of clips of you and the Howlies reminiscing about the old days. I never saw you crying!”

Peggy crossed her arms across her chest.

“Did the interviewer say something to you?” He said hotly, tossing a thrown alphabet block back into the playpen. “Did he upset you?”

“No, nothing like that,” Peggy waved dismissively. “That was the problem.”

Steve remained silent, and she sighed again.

“’Did Captain America have an effect on you personally?’” Peggy intoned in a flat American accent. She shook her head. “The number of times I’ve had someone insinuate some kind of improper...just because I was your liaison...”

“Well,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “we weren’t exactly regulation.”

She swatted at him with the back of her hand.

“Be that as it may,” she continued, “people are usually so keen to twist everything into something sordid. I expected that. What I didn’t expect...what I wasn’t counting on, was for him to be sympathetic. As if he understood what you might have meant to me. For some reason that made it worse.”

Steve slid an arm around her shoulders. Peggy leaned in against him, her chin starting to wobble once more.

“Of course the questions had me thinking about the war, and when we met…and everything that’s happened since,” she said, her gaze fixing on the child in his playpen. Peggy’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “So much had to happen... _just so_. Everything you had to do to get back. It could have all turned out so different.”

Steve followed her gaze. It was true that every child was a miracle, depended on the confluence of millions of chance events - but it was also true that no other child alive was made up of a more unlikely collection of events than theirs.

“And then - what did he say...oh yes! He asked about Volgograd, and I had the cover story, of course, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about what really happened that winter,” she said in a low voice, and Steve bit back a smile. “I thought about how you must have felt watching it. It was as if I was betraying you in the worst possible way.”

“Aww, Peggy,” he said, rubbing circles on her back. “I didn’t take it like that. And it makes sense why it was the cover - however we originally thought of it. Over a thousand possible husbands - gonna be hard to narrow down who it is, or get caught out if we run into someone else who was there. Steve Carter gets to be pretty anonymous this way.”

She sniffled.

“I’m serious, Peg. I don’t think it woulda mattered when you met him or how, all I knew was he wasn’t me.”

She looked up at him dolefully.

“But I’ve never been happier to be proven wrong,” Steve said, shaking his head, and leaning down to kiss her deeply.

That was the moment, of course, that their miracle child scaled the walls of his prison. Steve scooped him into his lap, and motioned for Peggy to continue with a handkerchief he took out of his pocket for her.

“Well, and THEN. He asked about your last words, and I completely lost it, Steve,” she said, laughing ruefully, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I was back in that radio room again. Picking up the pieces for the next four years, trying to get on with it. And I couldn’t help thinking about how scared you must have been, and then how lonely, waking up without knowing a soul.”

“I knew you,” Steve replied softly. “You were there for me.”

Her lips trembled, and she glared at him. “Not helping!”

“Sorry,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll try to be more of a jerk, if that makes you feel better.”

“Ugh, I’m just being silly,” Peggy said dabbing at her eyes.

“Nah. Not silly,” he said, massaging her knee. “It hits at different times. You remember how I used to call you at work, just to hear the sound of your voice?”

A smile ghosted across her tear stained face. “Yes, you gave my agents quite a lot of ammunition against my suitability for the job. But you did eventually cool down...after I told you off.”

“Or,” Steve countered, “I had other proof that this was real. I could just glance over at my kid, who looks exactly like his beautiful mother. Tends to be reassuring.”

He looked down at their son, who scowled at being talked over. “Well, except when he does that.” He grinned, and hesitated, before pressing on.

“But you at least have a pretty good excuse for feeling a little sensitive about all this.”

“I shouldn’t fall to pieces just because someone asks a few questions about you,” she said, drying her cheeks.

“I’m not talking about the interview.”

Ever so slowly, Peggy’s eyebrows knitted together and she regarded him dubiously. Steve considered maybe there was even more resemblance between her and Mike than he’d originally thought.

“Steven,” she said in a businesslike, though sniffly tone, “will you kindly explain your meaning?”

He rounded his shoulders.

“Sometimes biology...hormones can be - tough.”

She gaped, on the verge of outrage. “Are you suggesting,” Peggy said primly, a blush rising to her face, “that I am pre-menstrual?”

Steve laughed. “No, honey, I’m suggesting that you are the exact _opposite_.”

Peggy stared at him for a long time, his words washing over her.

“No,” she said, finally.

Steve nodded. “Yep.”

“No, Steve...no.”

He cringed. “Sorry.”

“No, I mean, how do you...”

“Well, you’re late—”

“How on earth do you know that?” she demanded.

He laughed. “I pay attention? I buy your stuff. And we share a calendar Peg. I know what those little asterisks mean; I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Well, so maybe I am late but it’s been a trying few weeks, and I’ve never run like clockwork.”

“Peggy...” he started.

She gasped. “Is this something you know from the future? Because you—”

“No,” he said. “It’s not from that. You know I don’t know dates or those kinds of details. It’s things from now.”

“Such as...?”

“Such as, you turned down the chance for a reuben sandwich at a real New York delicatessen, even though you’ve been talking about it nonstop since we made reservations. You told me your father smoked a pipe so you actually _like_ the smell of tobacco. You’re taking a lot of naps, even for you. And...there are other things,” Steve finished with a shrug. 

“But Esposito’s brand— Wait, what other things?”

It was Steve’s turn to avoid looking her in the eyes.

“Steve?”

“It’s just a subtle thing. Enhanced senses. I pick up on little changes sometimes...it’s not important—”

“Steve.”

He sighed, looking to Michael for some kind of assistance, and then back to her, apologetically, “You...smell different.”

Peggy’s eyes blazed, but her voice was utterly calm. “I have an odor?”

“A scent! And it’s not unpleasant.”

“Not unpleasant?”

“Normal Peggy smells nice, pregnant Peggy smells nice too. Just...different.”

“Is this something that happens with all women, or just me?”

“Well Peg,” he said with asperity, “I’m not normally close enough to other pregnant women to find out, am I?”

She still appeared unconvinced, as if this was just a fancy of his.

His eyes went to the ceiling and he scrunched them closed, profoundly uncomfortable. “You taste different too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Please don’t ask me if other women—”

“I wasn’t going to,” she interrupted. “...So that’s why you’ve been giving me those funny looks when you—”

“Yeah,” he cut in. He felt himself growing warm. Damn his perfect recall.

“Just how accurate do you suppose you are?”

Steve drew in a deep breath. “I noticed it when you were expecting Michael, but haven’t exactly been able to do a big study.” He quirked his lips. “Pretty sure though.”

“Huh,” she said after a pause.

“Are you ok?”

Her brows didn’t unknit, but one raised up slightly, as a confused grin spread across her face, bringing one dimple with it.

“I am,” she said, a little unsure.

“Yeah? he answered, hopefully.

“Yes.” Peggy said firmly, and turned to face Steve fully, expectantly, “And you?” 

How to answer that question. Was he ok? Ok didn’t cut it. A black and white photo swam up from his memory, kept on a bedside table: a pigeon pair of children seated next to Peggy, all three of them smiling. The boy, dark haired and square jawed. The girl, fairer, narrower in the face, her hair in two braids. Thinking back on it, she looked like...almost like his own mother, though he certainly hadn’t made any connection at the time.

Steve placed a reverent hand on Peg’s belly, happy tears filling his eyes. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Peggy hadn’t wanted to know with Michael, and he had been terrible about letting pronouns slip. He’d try harder this time, if she still wanted to be surprised. Though maybe it wasn’t in the cards for a highly trained spy and a time-traveler, who also happened to be a bad liar.

“Well,” he said, shifting the squirming child on his lap with a grin. “We’re really in for it now. Another one probably just as bull-headed and stubborn as us.”

She was beaming now, a sight that never failed to make him feel a little breathless.

“So you’ve known all this time,” she said with curiosity. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I figured you’d want to tell me. That’s the usual order of things, isn’t it?” Steve said with a shrug. 

“Darling,” she said, taking hold of his lapel and leaning up to kiss him, “When have we ever done things in the usual order?”

**Author's Note:**

> Volgograd may have been called Stalingrad in *our* universe’s 1953, but I’m keeping it consistent with the interview itself. 
> 
> The MoMA exhibits mentioned were real ones actually on display in October 1953; the museum keeps a wonderful archive for dumdums like me who over-research when they should be writing.


End file.
